Добавил:
ivanov666
Опубликованный материал нарушает ваши авторские права? Сообщите нам.
Вуз:
Предмет:
Файл:Ralph the Heir II
.pdf
CHAPTER XXXII
SIR THOMAS AT HOME
Sir Thomas Underwood was welcomed home at the villa
with a double amount of sympathy and glory, — that due to
him for his victory being added to that which came to him on
the score of his broken arm. A hero is never so much a hero
among women as when he has been wounded in the battle.
The very weakness which throws him into female hands imparts a moiety of his greatness to the women who for the while
possess him, and creates a partnership in heroism, in which
the feminine half delights to make the most of its own share.
During the week at Percycross and throughout the journey
Patience had had this half all to herself; and there had arisen to her considerable enjoyment from it as soon as she found
that her father would probably be none the worse for his accident after a few weeks. She saw more of him now than she had
done for years, and was able, after a fashion, to work her quiet,
loving, female will with him, exacting from him an obedience to feminine sway such as had not been exercised on him
since his wife’s death. He himself had been humbled, passive,
and happy. He had taken his gruel, grumbled with modesty,
31
ANTHONY TROLLOPE
and consoled himself with constantly reflecting that he was
member of Parliament for the borough of Percycross.
During their journey, although Patience was urgent in
requiring from her father quiescence, lest he should injure
himself by too much exertion, there were many words spoken both as to Clarissa and Mary Bonner. As to poor Clary,
Sir Thomas was very decided that if there were any truth in
the suspicion which had been now roused in his mind as to
Ralph the heir, the thing must be put an end to at once. Ralph
who had been the heir was now in possession of that mess of
pottage for which he had sold his inheritance, — so said Sir
Thomas to his daughter, — and would undoubtedly consume
that, as he had consumed the other mess which should have
lasted him till the inheritance was his own. And he told to Patience the whole story as to Polly Neefit, — the whole story,
at least, as he had heard it. Ralph had declared to Sir Thomas,
when discussing the expedience of his proposed marriage with
the daughter of the breeches-maker, that he was attached to
Polly Neefit. Sir Thomas had done all he could to dissuade
the young man from a marriage which, in his eyes, was disgraceful; but he could not bring himself to look with favour
on affections transferred so quickly from the breeches-maker’s
daughter to his own. There must be no question of a love affair between Clary and the foolish heir who had disinherited
himself by his folly. All this was doubly painful to Patience.
She suffered first for her sister, the violence of whose feelings
were so well known to her, and so completely understood; and
then on her own account she was obliged to endure the conviction that she was deceiving her father. Although she had al-
32
RALPH THE HEIR
lowed something of the truth to escape from her, she had not
wilfully told her sister’s secret. But looking at the matter from
her father’s point of view, and hearing all that her father now
said, she was brought in guilty of hypocrisy in the court of her
own conscience.
In that other matter as to Mary Bonner there was much
more of pleasantness. There could be no possible reason why
that other man, to whom Fortune was going to be so good,
should not marry Mary Bonner, if Mary could bring herself to take him into her good graces. And of course she would.
Such at least was Sir Thomas’s opinion. How was it possible
that a girl like Mary, who had nothing of her own, should
fail to like a lover who had everything to recommend him, —
good looks, good character, good temper, and good fortune. Patience did make some protest against this, for the sake of her
sex. She didn’t think, she said, that Mary had ever thought of
Mr. Newton in that light. “There must be a beginning to such
thoughts, of course,” said Sir Thomas. Patience explained
that she had nothing to say against Mr. Newton. It would all be
very nice and proper, no doubt, — only perhaps Mary might
not care for Mr. Newton. “Psha!” said Sir Thomas. Sir Thomas
seemed to think that the one girl was as much bound to fall in
love as the other was to abstain from so doing. Patience continued her protest, — but very mildly, because her father’s arm
was in a sling. Then there arose the question whether Mary
should be told of the young man’s letter. Patience thought
that the young man should be allowed to come and speak for
himself. Sir Thomas made no objection to the young man’s
coming. The young man might come when he pleased. But
33
ANTHONY TROLLOPE
Sir Thomas thought it would be well that Mary should know
what the young man had written. And so they reached home.
To be glorified by one worshipping daughter had been
pleasant to the wounded hero, but to be glorified by two daughters and a niece was almost wearisome. On the first evening
nothing was said about the love troubles or love prospects of
the girls. Sir Thomas permitted to himself the enjoyment of his
glory, with some few signs of impatience when the admiration
became too strong. He told the whole story of his election, lying back among his cushions on the sofa, although Patience,
with mild persistence, cautioned him against exertion.
“It is very bad that you should have your arm broken,
papa,” said Clarissa.
“It is a bore, my dear.”
“Of course it is, — a dreadful bore. But as it is doing so
well, I am so glad that you went down to Percycross. It is such
a great thing that you should be in the House again. It does
give so much colour to our lives here.”
“I hope they were not colourless before.”
“You know what I mean. It is so nice to feel that you are in
Parliament.”
“It is quite on the cards that I may lose the seat by petition.”
“They never can be so cruel,” said Mary.
“Cruelty!” said Sir Thomas laughing. “In politics men skin
each other without the slightest feeling. I do not doubt that Mr.
Westmacott would ruin me with the most perfect satisfaction,
if by doing so he could bring the seat within his own reach
again; and yet I believe Mr. Westmacott to be a kind-hearted,
good sort of man. There is a theory among Englishmen that in
34
RALPH THE HEIR
politics no man need spare another. To wish that your opponent should fall dead upon the hustings is not an uncharitable wish at an election.”
“Oh, papa!” exclaimed Patience.
“At any rate you are elected,” said Clary.
“And threatened folk live long, uncle,” said Mary Bonner.
“So they say, my dear. Well, Patience, don’t look at me with
so much reprobation in your eyes, and I will go to bed at once.
Being here instead of at the Percy Standard does make one inclined to take a liberty.”
“Oh, papa, it is such a delight to have you,” said Clary, jumping up and kissing her father’s forehead. All this was pleasant
enough, and the first evening came to an end very happily.
The next morning Patience, when she was alone with her
father, made a request to him with some urgency. “Papa,” she
said, “do not say anything to Clary about Ralph.”
“Why not?”
“If there is anything in it, let it die out of itself.”
“But is there?”
“How am I to say? Think of it, papa. If I knew it, I could
hardly tell, — even you.”
“Why not? If I am not to hear the truth from you who is to
tell me?”
“Dear papa, don’t be angry. There may be a truth which had
better not be told. What we both want is that Clary shouldn’t
suffer. If you question her she will suffer. You may be sure of
this, — that she will obey your wishes.”
“How can she obey them, unless she knows them?”
35
ANTHONY TROLLOPE
“She shall know them,” said Patience. But Sir Thomas
would give no promise.
On that same day Sir Thomas sent for his niece into his
room, and there read to her the letter which he had received
from the Squire’s son. It was now the last week of October, —
that short blessed morsel of time which to the poor Squire
at Newton was the happiest of his life. He was now cutting
down trees and building farm-houses, and looking after his
stud in all the glory of his success. Ralph had written his letter, and had received his answer, — and he also was successful
and glorious. That fatal day on which the fox would not break
from Barford Woods had not yet arrived. Mary Bonner heard
the letter read, and listened to Sir Thomas’s speech without
a word, without a blush, and without a sign. Sir Thomas began
his speech very well, but became rather misty towards the end,
when he found himself unable to reduce Mary to a state of
feminine confusion. “My dear,” he began, “I have received
a letter which I think it is my duty to read to you.”
“A letter, uncle?”
“Yes, my dear. Sit down while I read it. I may as well tell you
at once that it is a letter which has given me very great satisfaction. It is from a young gentleman;” — upon hearing this
announcement Mary’s face assumed a look of settled, collected
strength, which never left it for a moment during the remainder of the interview, — “yes; from a young gentleman, and
I may say that I never read a letter which I thought to be more
honourable to the writer. It is from Mr. Ralph Newton, — not
the Ralph with whom you have found us to be so intimate,
but from the other who will some day be Mr. Newton of New-
36
RALPH THE HEIR
ton Priory.” Then Sir Thomas looked into his niece’s face, hoping to see there something of the flutter of expectant triumph.
But there was neither flutter nor triumph in Mary’s countenance. He read the letter, sitting up in his bed, with his left
arm in a sling, and then he handed it to her. “You had better
look at it yourself, my dear.” Mary took the letter, and sat as
though she were reading it. It seemed to Sir Thomas that she
was reading it with the cold accuracy of a cautious attorney; —
but in truth her eyes did not follow a single word of the letter. There was neither flutter nor triumph in her face, or in
the movement of her limbs, or in the quiet, almost motionless carriage of her body; but, nevertheless, the pulses of her
heart beat so strongly, that had all depended on it she could
not have read a word of the letter. “Well, my dear,” said Sir
Thomas, when he thought that ample time had been given
for the perusal. Mary simply folded the paper together and returned it into his hands. “I have told him, as I was bound to do,
my dear, that as far as I was concerned, I should be happy to
receive him; but that for any other answer, I must refer him to
you. Of course it will be for you to give him what answer your
heart dictates. But I may say this, — and it is my duty to say it
as your guardian and nearest relative; — the way in which he
has put forward his request shows him to be a most honourable man; all that I have ever heard of him is in his favour; he
is a gentleman every inch of him; and as for his prospects in
life, they are such that they entitle him to address almost any
lady in the land. Of course you will follow the dictates of your
own heart, as I said; but I cannot myself fancy any greater good
fortune that could come in the way of a young woman than
37
ANTHONY TROLLOPE
the honest affections of such a man as this Ralph Newton.”
Then Sir Thomas paused for some reply, but Mary had none
ready for him. “Of course I have no questions to ask,” he said,
and then again paused. But still Mary did not speak. “I dare
say he will be here before long, and I hope that he may meet
with a happy reception. I at least shall be glad to see him, for
I hold him in great honour. And as I look upon marriage as
the happiest lot for all women, and as I think that this would
be a happy marriage, I do hope, — I do hope — But as I said
before, all that must be left to yourself. Mary, have you nothing to say?”
“I trust, uncle, you are not tired of me.”
“Tired of you! Certainly not. I have not been with you
since you have been here as much as I should have wished
because, — indeed for various reasons. But we all like you,
and nobody wants to get rid of you. But there is a way in
which young ladies leave their own homes, which is generally
thought to be matter of congratulation. But, as I said before,
nobody shall press you.”
“Dear uncle, I am so full of thanks to you for your kindness.”
“But it is of course my duty as your guardian to tell you
that in my opinion this gentleman is entitled to your esteem.”
After that Mary left him without another word, and taking
her hat and cloak as she passed through the hall went at once
out into the garden. It was a fine autumn morning, almost with
a touch of summer in it. We do not know here that special season which across the Atlantic is called the Indian summer, —
that last glow of the year’s warmth which always brings with it
38
RALPH THE HEIR
a half melancholy conviction of the year’s decay, — which in
itself is so delightful, would be so full of delight, were it not for
the consciousness which it seems to contain of being the immediate precursor of winter with all its horrors. There is no
sufficient constancy with us of the recurrence of such a season, to make any special name needful. But now and again
there comes a day, when the winds of the equinox have lulled
themselves, and the chill of October rains have left the earth,
and the sun gives a genial, luxurious warmth, with no power to
scorch, with strength only to comfort. But here, as elsewhere,
this luxury is laden with melancholy, because it tells us of decay, and is the harbinger of death. This was such a day, and
Mary Bonner, as she hurried into a shrubbery walk, where she
could wander unseen, felt both the sadness and the softness of
the season. There was a path which ran from the front gate of
the villa grounds through shrubs and tall evergreens down to
the river, and was continued along the river-bank up through
the flower-garden to windows opening from the drawingroom. Here she walked alone for more than an hour, turning
as she came to the river in order that she might not be seen
from the house.
Mary Bonner, of whose character hitherto but little has
been said, was, at any rate, an acute observer. Very soon after
her first introduction to Ralph the heir, — Ralph who had
for so many years been the intimate friend of the Underwood
family, — she perceived something in the manner of that very
attractive young man which conveyed to her a feeling that, if
she so pleased, she might count him as an admirer of her own.
She had heard then, as was natural, much of the brilliance of
39
ANTHONY TROLLOPE
his prospects, and but little, — as was also natural, — of
what he had done to mar them. And she also perceived, or fancied that she perceived, that her cousin Clary gave many of her
thoughts to the heir. Now Mary Bonner understood the importance to herself of a prosperous marriage, as well as any girl
ever did understand its great significance. She was an orphan,
living in fact on the charity of her uncle. And she was aware
that having come to her uncle’s house when all the weakness
and attractions of her childhood were passed, she could have
no hold on him or his such as would have been hers had she
grown to be a woman beneath his roof. There was a thoughtfulness too about her, — a thoughtfulness which some, perhaps, may call worldliness, — which made it impossible for
her not to have her own condition constantly in her mind.
In her father’s lifetime she had been driven by his thoughtlessness and her own sterner nature to think of these things;
and in the few months that had passed between her father’s
death and her acceptance in her uncle’s house she had taught
herself to regard the world as an arena in which she must fight
a battle by her own strength with such weapons as God had
given to her. God had, indeed, given to her many weapons, but
she knew but of one. She did know that God had made her
very beautiful. But she regarded her beauty after an unfeminine fashion, — as a thing of value, but as a chattel of which
she could not bring herself to be proud. Might it be possible
that she should win for herself by her beauty some position in
the world less burdensome, more joyous than that of a governess, and less dependent than that of a daily recipient of her
uncle’s charity?
40
Соседние файлы в предмете [НЕСОРТИРОВАННОЕ]